


Saviour Complex

by wandofhawthorn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Uni!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandofhawthorn/pseuds/wandofhawthorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While at university, John gets a thrill out of helping junkies through detox.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saviour Complex

**Author's Note:**

> For a quick fic swap on tumblr, put together by hi-mom. My original prompt was from lebeauxderdaben: “John comes across Sherlock before they’ve met, when Sherlock’s on the street, still using drugs. Saves/rescues him. Angst is vair good. AU’s are encouraged - teenlock, winglock, omegaverse, hell, even potterlock if you want to swing it like that XD It’s all up to the imagination of the author!” 
> 
> I tried Potterlock, but it was going to take too much planning for such a quick turn around. I'm hanging onto my notes just in case! 
> 
> Let it be clear that I don't have ANY experience with drugs or detox, so please don't expect this to be a factual account or timeline of how it works. I was given a week to write it, so I didn't have a lot of time for research. Please forgive me for blatant errors.
> 
> Beta'd and britpicked by the lovely MissLouisa. All remaining errors are my own.

At nineteen, John Watson has seen more addiction than most adults. Living with a family of alcoholics will do that to a person. After he watches his cousin overdose on heroin, he moves to the city for university. He’s done with all that.

So when he comes across a junkie in a London alley, he almost turns his back. He’s paid his dues. The woman’s eyes change his mind, panicked and pleading, and he helps her through the first (and worst) stage of detox before dropping her off at a rehabilitation centre. He scrubs his flat with bleach water for several hours, trying to get the stench of vomit and sweat from his kitchen floor. It reminds him too much of home.

The next incident is with a fellow student. He can’t believe that anyone going through medical school would be stupid enough to pump their system with countless substances, but he swiftly turns from study partner to nurse when the overdose sends his friend into cardiac arrest. They get to the hospital on time, but just barely. The rush of saving a life is unbelievable, and John throws himself into his studies, determined to be the best damn doctor in London.

He starts seeking out users in the seedy corners of the city, an addict in his own right. Danger and adrenaline accompany him through the streets. He lets strangers stay in his home just to be able to watch the light come back into their eyes when the drugs finally leave their system. He watches their trembling forms with hunched shoulders as they disappear into clinics around the city. He doesn’t seek them out afterwards, just in case. Once an addict, always an addict, and he doesn’t want to be disappointed.

During his second year of university, he catches his neighbour shooting up on his balcony.  He realizes it’s a bad batch when he pulls the man into his flat, only to stand by helpless as the man has a convulsive seizure on his area rug. The ambulance doesn’t make it in time. He watches the paramedics remove the body bag from his living room, and he decides he’s had enough.

~~

It’s only three weeks later that he stumbles across the impossible boy on an impossible high, raving about how the police haven’t got a clue about a recent string of suicides. He’s coherent enough, and bloody brilliant as he explains his reasoning (“Serial suicides don’t happen. It’s a serial killer. He’s been taking trophies. Can’t believe they haven’t caught that.”), but John can spot the glassy-eyed look from yards away. He watches the slim fingers as they tremble, and sighs heavily. _Of course_ he’s going to try again. Anyone this brilliant should not be wasting away like a common junkie.

He’s about John’s age, perhaps a bit younger, and he reeks of upper class upbringing. The posh coat hangs from his thin frame, and his features disappear under an unruly mop of curly black hair. He might’ve been attractive if his life had taken another path, but the signs of addiction were plainly scrawled across his face. John supposes he might live another six months if he continues using.

The boy is all limbs, and it takes John twenty minutes to haul him bodily up the thirteen stairs to his flat. He finds out his name is Sherlock Holmes after he’s retched all over John’s trainers.

~~

“Saviour complex,” Sherlock groans from the bathroom floor, teeth chattering as he shakes through the pain three days later. He’s wearing one of John’s old t-shirts that’s too short for his torso, and it’s soaked through with sweat. John sits next to him, his lab book propped open on his knee and his back against the cool tile wall.

“What’s that?” he asks absentmindedly. Sherlock has been muttering nonsense since he arrived, but something in his tone indicates that he’s fully aware at the moment.

“What you have. An innate need to save people. Probably because you come from a family of addicts. You make a habit of helping strangers to make up for the fact that you were unable or unwilling to help them.” He pauses as his muscles seize and he heaves himself over the edge of the toilet to empty the meagre contents of his stomach. “One of them died, didn’t they.” It isn’t a question.

John doesn’t want to talk about it, so he stays silent and presses a wet flannel to the boy’s forehead.

~~

“I didn’t ask for this you know.” Sherlock’s face is a sallow shade of grey as he glares at John in the dim light of the spare bedroom.

“I know.”

“I could’ve stopped at any point. I didn’t need your help.”

“Of course you didn’t.” John turns a page of his textbook, jotting down a quick note about Tay-Sachs disease. He doesn’t look up.

“Don’t patronize me, John. It doesn’t suit you.”

“You can leave at any time. I won’t stop you.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but the crease between his eyebrows deepens.

John is surprised when Sherlock is still there in the morning, correcting his essay on hereditary diseases. He’s been a fixture in the flat for eleven days – most of the others left after four.

~~

“Why did you start?” John asks as he feeds Sherlock chicken soup. Seventeen days in, and John is well aware by now that Sherlock hates to be coddled, but his hands won’t stop shaking long enough for him to eat properly.

Sherlock shrugs. “I was bored.”

John just stares, eyes wide, spoon waiting in mid-air. Every time he’s posed this question before, he can almost justify the answers he’s given. Stress, grief, pain – those he can understand. But boredom? The very idea is beyond John’s comprehension.

“Don’t give me that look,” Sherlock mutters. “I know how it sounds. The drugs helped me think. They helped me focus. I needed clarity.”

“You need purpose,” John says. “I bet if you were given something to focus on –“

“Nobody wants to work with a junkie.”

“Good thing you’ve stopped that, then.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but he finishes the rest of the soup without complaint.

~~

A man in a waistcoat shows up at John’s door three weeks after Sherlock’s arrival. Without a word, he pushes his way into the flat despite John’s protests. It’s obvious from the scowl on Sherlock’s face that this is no stranger.

“Don’t tell me it’s taken you this long to find me.”

“Nonsense, Sherlock. I’ve always known you were here,” the man replies. He leans on an umbrella, pulls out a mobile, and sends a quick text. Turning to John, he speaks again. “Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother. Thank you for keeping him safe for me, Mr. Watson.”

John is so taken aback by the exchange that he simply nods and watches as Sherlock is ushered off his couch and out the door. He follows them to the street where a large black car waits. It occurs to him that he wants to stop this, that he wants to pull Sherlock’s chaos back inside his flat and his life and keep him there, keep him safe. He feels like he’s being robbed. There’s a good chance that once Sherlock disappears into the car, John will never see him again, and that scares him. He blinks at the revelation.

“Was I right?” Sherlock asks before climbing into the back seat. “About your family, I mean.”

John nods tightly.

Sherlock presses his lips together and raises his hand in a wave before he is encased in metal and tinted glass. John feels numb as the car pulls away.

~~

He finds out three days later that his student loans have been paid in full. A note is taped to his front door: “You have my gratitude. –MH”

John tears it into tiny pieces.

~~

The next junkie John picks up tries to stab him with a switchblade. John leaves him on the street and officially retires.

~~

A lifetime later, John is war torn and bitter and standing in St. Bart’s with a limp and a stiff shoulder. When Mike pulls him into the lab, he stops short. He almost doesn’t recognize the man in front of him, but the piercing gaze and black curls send him back to his old spare bedroom, studying for exams while Sherlock shakes through long nights of detox. He’s still too skinny and too pale, but the grey tinge has left his skin and his hands don’t tremble while they adjust the microscope.

John smiles. Perhaps a flatmate isn’t such a bad idea after all.


End file.
